


Condemned

by cuneifire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 15th Century, F/F, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Hundred Year's War, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 15:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: At a vital turning point. France has been chained, but neither she nor her country is broken.





	Condemned

1431

.

Chains snap on either side of her wrists, cross hanging in front of her eyes like a ribbon of blood.

“Lord, send me aid, in this time of need…” France has resolved herself to praying. Her hands tremble with the weigh of the chains.

She does not like this. But, if it will help, she will do it.

She thinks of  _Sourcils_ and her stupid wars, her stupid language, her stupid invasions that last centuries. She thinks of the possibility she will take everything France has ever been and snatch it out of in front of her eyes like a seafarer to gold. She thinks of how that is not allowed to occur, and her teeth dig into her lip.

 _England would make a good pirate._ The thought is an odd one to have whilst in chains.

                She wishes she were not in chains, that they had not taken her from the fight because she is a woman.  _I am a woman, yes,_ she’d like to tell them,  _but I am your country, and I will die to fight for you._ It does not make much sense, but the rules the men have made do not either. She is no use at home. But on the battlefield, on the battlefield she is a menace. 

She can close her eyes and still see Jeanne burning in the back of her eyes, hear the words she’d spoken to France when France had been pitch black in the middle of a dug in hole with a bottle of heavy liquor no lady should have her hands on.

 _“Lève toi,”_ She’d said, gripping France by the wrist and pulling her up. Her fingers had caught on the tattered fabric of France’s torn blouse, and she’d straightened it. Her expression had been one- what had France called it- one of a woman prepared for war. “ _Tu est mon pays,”_ She’d said, and then reiterated. “You are my country, and you will not fall.” There had been fire in her eyes, and France thinks that just then and there she might have fell in love. Fell in love with that fire like determination and skill with a sword that France had learned to use like a warrior in her times with Rome but had forgotten in the turmoil that was time. Fell in love with the girl who would deny them- the naysayers, the men, the  _English-_ just to fight for this country. For France. For  _her._

She jaunts her shoulder and shakes her head, telling herself determinedly, over and over, that that holds no cause, for Jeanne is dead now. She thinks it as the chain rattles against her thin wrists, and the makeshift key made up from hairpins slides into the lock. Jeanne is dead, brutally burned at a stake, a blank hole pressing directly inbetween the bones of her ribcage. An absence. A longing.

The chains fall loose. Knees buckle against the wood, the cart shaking with the horse’s movements. Her legs tremble as she rises. Her hands clench into fists as she stares off, chains hitting the floor. She forces her gaze to focus, her mind to hold itself in the present. She will not slip, will not fall, will not break. She is  _France,_ she is  _victoire,_ she is destiny and the will of God himself. 

                And so she jumps, off the carriage, the wind whistling in her ears and she's falling, falling, falling until she's not and her feet find steady ground and dust kicks up around her like a shield. Dirt pierces her eyes and her bones tremble, but she shrugs it off, pushes it aside. It is alright. She will find a sword soon, and she will fight with it, constructs be put to hell, rules be damned, law be damned.  _Sourcils_ will not take her for dead. That violent, vicious, barbarous girl with awful hair and a toothy smile that makes France more than want to hurt her (want to pin her down, want to touch her blood, want to lean in and press her lips to the pulse on her throat) will rot in her own ruin when France is done with her.  

For Jeanne may be dead, but Marianne is more than capable of fighting.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> Sourcils- French for eyebrows, i.e England. Lève toi- Get up.  
> -Marianne is the name of the real-life personification of France, much like Uncle Sam is for the US. I do not consider female France (or France himself) to be this, but I think France would use her name to channel courage in dire times like these.  
> -Jeanne d’Arc or Joan of Arc died the 30th of May 1431, after being captured and burned to death by the English. She inspired the French to keep fighting in the Hundred year’s war, which the English had so far been winning. Eventually, the French did win.  
>   
> Also, this is as good a time as any to mention that is anyone wants to write in a drabble request in the comments I'd likely be happy to roll with it (drabble for me is >500 words). Preferably with a prompt or something, a pairing and a word or a phrase. But only if anyone's in interested, lol.  
> Hope you enjoyed/ feedback is always appreciated!


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